A Dogin Exile. 63 
Of course, after this, I could have nothing more 
to do with the retriever, further than patting him 
on the head, and speaking a kind word to him when- 
ever he chanced to be in my way. But this was 
not enough for old Major. He was a sporting dog, 
full of energy, and with undiminished faith in his 
own powers, in spite of his years, and when a sports- 
man had come to the house, and had deliberately 
singled him out for friendly notice, he could not and 
would not believe that it was to go no further. 
Day after day he clung to the delusion that he was 
to accompany me in my walks and little shooting 
excursions in the neighbourhood ; and every time I 
took down a gun he would rush forward from his 
post by the door with so many demonstrations of 
joy, and with such imploring looks and gestures, 
that I found it very hard to rebuke him. It was 
sad to have him standing there, first cocking up one 
ear, then the other, striving to pierce the baffling 
mists that intervened between his poor purblind 
eyes and my face, to find some sign of relenting in 
it. 
It was evident that old Major was not happy, in 
spite of all he had to make him so: although he 
was well fed and fat, and treated with the greatest 
kindness by every one on the place, and although 
all the other dogs about the house looked up to him 
with that instinctive respect they always accord to 
the oldest, or strongest, or most domineering mem- 
ber, his heart was restless and dissatisfied. He could 
not endure an inactive life. There was, in fact, only 
